It is always cooler on the water. I had heard that phrase a hundred times but still could not imagine putting on a sweater on a sticky Minnesota summer day. Now, as our small fishing boat skimmed the smooth surface of Detroit Lake, goosebumps raised on my arms from the chilled air hovering above the water. It was 1969, I was eleven years old, and sitting in the bow of a fishing boat. The small seat doubled as storage for the boat anchor and forced the occupant to face the rear. In rough water, the bow was prone to spray from waves as the boat bottom slapped down between swells. Today, I was thankful the water was calm.

My brother Mike, piloting the boat, had charge of the 5 ½ horsepower Evinrude motor. The motor running wide open could only achieve a speed of 10 to 12 mph, but on the water, it felt faster. I had twisted in my seat and watched our progress toward a distant shore. I could tell we were near the center of the lake because all the surrounding shoreline was the same distance from our boat. I was unsure of our destination but knew our mission when we arrived.

We were looking for a secluded area, one with shallow waters and heavily wooded shoreline. In these types of coves, the density of the trees only allowed you to see a few feet inland, and often, it felt like something or someone watched our boat as we prowled the shallow waters.

Ten minutes later, I heard the motor ease off as Mike scanned the shoreline. Swinging the boat to the left, he headed for an area where he had spotted fallen trees with their trunks partially submerged, extending into the water.

Leaning over the bow, I stared into the water, looking for the bottom. The motor now throttled back to a trolling speed, slowed our forward progress to a speed equivalent to a slow walk. The bottom suddenly appeared as a tangle of weeds, old leaves, tree limbs, and muck. Still 25 feet from the shore, I estimated our depth to be around three feet. The sunlight streaming through the water illuminated the bottom and provided a clear view for dozens of feet in all directions.

Sitting on one of the larger tree trunks all in a line were eight turtles of varying sizes, and were the reason for our boat being in the cove. There is a specific distance; a turtle will accept as an object approaches. When that line is crossed, it is like a signal is broadcast simultaneously, and each turtle dives into the water with the precision of a synchronized swimming team. In the clear shallow water, they can easily be seen scattering in every direction.

My job as a spotter was to guide the the boat in following one of the turtles while trying to avoid getting our motor entangled in any underwater obstacles. My brother Pete in the center of the boat held a large landing net, and his job was to scoop the turtle up if and when we could get close enough.

The hunt was an intricate dance of hand signals, turning, slowing down, speeding up, and reversing course as we tried to follow the turtle through the shallows. Most of the time, with its superior knowledge of the underwater habitat and hiding places, the turtle won the contest. Every so often, though, as we honed our skills, we were able to scoop one into our boat. The adventure was in the chase, and after landing one in the net, it was satisfying to return it to its habitat and watch it swim away. I imagine in short order it would find its way back to the tree trunk, climb back up and get into the single file line in which we had found it.